


Pushing Back

by prototyping



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Action, Fighting, Gen, a tribute to every time he brushed byleth off and i yelled FIGHT ME at the tv, battle couples are best couples, fight fic, not exactly romantic but y'all know this is in the romance timeline sooo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 14:37:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21303716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prototyping/pseuds/prototyping
Summary: “This seems to be the only way to talk to you now.” She draws her blade in a smooth motion and grips it in both hands. “So talk to me.”
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & My Unit | Byleth, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 13
Kudos: 218
Collections: Quality Fics





	Pushing Back

“I told you to _stay out of it._”

The _snap_ of Dimitri’s cape as he turns away is loud, echoing sharply through the dark cathedral with a note of harsh finality. Byleth stares after him, lips still parted with the words he wouldn’t even let her finish before pushing her away. Again.

How long has it been now? How many weeks? How many months? Day in and day out, he’s refused to talk to her－to _anyone_－unless absolutely necessary, and even then it’s grudgingly, oftentimes ignoring her responses outright.

In a way, she understands, or wants to think she does. Dimitri is shouldering so much, too much, and his mind has suffered terribly for it. He doesn’t see friends and allies anymore; his personal vendetta and survival instinct have dug their claws into him too deeply. He only sees tools that are useful to him－faces who could turn on him at any moment, as too many people have already. He hasn’t made the wisest choices, but he’s not entirely a creature of his own making, either.

Byleth’s heart goes out to him. So much it hurts.

_But enough’s enough._

She draws herself up to her full height－unimpressive though it is－and faces his retreating back squarely. “You’ll have to make me,” she retorts.

Dimitri stops short. It’s impossible to read his posture. “Oh?”

That deep purr of dark amusement is in his tone again. Byleth’s fists clench at her sides. Of his short range of moods, this is his most unpredictable.

“Keep running from us all you want. I’ll still follow you.”

_“Running?”_ He turns back, his gaze icy. Byleth doesn’t so much as flinch.

“Did I misspeak?” she asks coolly.

“Running from _what?_” he snarls. “All you weak, bleeding hearts who would sooner wait for this country to crumble than do what needs to be done? Who sit around and play at politics with all your _talk_ rather than _action_, all while _that woman_ continues to－”

“You’re _not_ the only one who was hurt by the Empire, Dimitri,” Byleth snaps back. Anger flairing, she marches over to him without breaking eye contact. Her patience, her kindness－nothing else has worked. How much more useless could losing her temper be? “And you’re not the only one who wants to see it fall. You’re just the one who would be dead by now if the rest of us hadn’t held you back from marching straight into Enbarr on a suicide mission－”

She reads his movement before he makes it, but she stands her ground. His left arm catches her hard across the chest and shoves her backwards, bending her uncomfortably against the nearest pew. She sets her jaw as the wood digs into the small of her back, but she doesn’t make a sound or lash out. She only mirrors his hard stare defiantly, staring up at him without a trace of emotion in her face. It’s such an ingrained habit that it isn’t difficult.

Dimitri can bark all he wants, but she knows he’s saved his bite for others.

For a long moment they’re both still, regarding one another with impassive expressions. Then, slowly, Dimitri smirks, a vacant look clouding his gaze to say he isn’t quite all there.

“If you had this much fire in your eyes on the battlefield,” he muses gruffly, “you would be much more useful.”

Breathing is a chore in this position, especially with his weight pushing down on her, but Byleth’s hands are steady as they slip down, unnoticed, to grip the bench. “How about I show you,” she huffs through her teeth, “how _useful_ I can be?”

She pulls her legs up and kicks hard at his thighs. It’s like kicking a wall, but the surprise of it makes him back up half a step and that’s all she needs to draw her knees higher and strike again, this time at his chest. The instant his arm loosens, Byleth twists out from under it and rolls off the bench and onto her feet. She reaches for her sword as she rounds on him, fingers hovering just above the hilt.

Dimitri’s face is difficult to read, but there’s something analyzing in the way his gaze sweeps briefly over her posture, as if seeing her for the first time. She has his attention, at least.

Her eyes flicker briefly to his lance, still held at his side. She never sees him without it these days. “This seems to be the only way to talk to you now.” She draws her blade in a smooth motion and grips it in both hands. “So talk to me.”

His eye narrows and she can already predict the disdain in his tone. “Foolish. Do you think I can still hold back? That I care to?”

“I’m not asking you to.”

After a short pause Dimitri faces her properly. The lance spins in his fingers as easily as though it’s made of hollow wood rather than heavy steel, the echoing _clunk_ when it strikes the ground a final warning.

Byleth doesn’t acknowledge it. She charges him and lets her weapon speak for her, true to her word.

He blocks her overhead swing easily, an almost lazy single-handed grip compared to her double. She already knows she can’t disarm him－not without the element of surprise on her side－but she doesn’t need to. With a hard twist Byleth locks the curved edge of her hilt around his lance shaft and throws her weight into it, forcing both their weapons aside. She brings her knee up in the same motion and drives it into Dimitri’s hip－a small, vulnerable space where the heavy plates of armor are replaced with leather for the sake of mobility. It would be easy to miss, especially in the low light, but his sharp exhale says she finds her target.

She can’t tell whether it’s a scoff or a hiss of pain, but it’s grimly satisfying all the same. He withdraws with a quick step to get his bearings, nearly wrenching the sword from her hands as he shakes her loose. Byleth anticipates his strength: she braces one hand against the side of her blade to block with the support of both arms, but stopping his swing still rattles her marrow and sends an uncomfortable shock through every joint between her fingertips and shoulders.

She dodges a jab and swings for his open side－only for Dimitri to quickly free his left hand and punch her blade down towards the floor. Surprised, she almost stumbles, and _almost_ is all he needs to seize a fistful of her jacket and yank her even further off-balance.

Byleth falls to her knees and throws herself to the side without hesitating. Steel _clangs_ against the floor, much too close for comfort, and she comes out of her roll back onto her feet and rushes him again.

As they continue their dangerous dance, Byleth realizes she still can’t read anything in Dimitri’s face: no enjoyment, but no reluctance, either. His expression is terse and focused and that’s all, with no hint of whether he’s glad for the sparring session or annoyed that she keeps up with him or concerned about accidentally hurting her.

Perhaps that should bother her, but Byleth soon realizes it doesn’t. As worried as she is about him, as frustrated as she is by her inability to help him, this battle pushes it all to the back of her mind for the time being. For all the fighting she’s done recently, she hasn’t fought like _this_ in a long time－barely a step ahead of her opponent, sometimes behind—and she’s not sure she’s ever had to push her limits so far in a non-lethal fight like this. Not against Jeralt, not against her students, not even against Felix in all their long and exhausting sparring sessions. Certainly not against Dimitri before now, either, for that was back when he was always so careful to mind his strength.

She can’t remember the last time she lost herself in a fight, trading conscious thought for the instincts and reflexes that have been etched into her for as long as she can remember. She doesn’t need to _think_ to evade or defend or counter, the most basic elements of survival as a soldier. Her body knows that much on its own.

Her year at Garreg Mach humanized her, thanks in no small part to Dimitri’s friendship, his warmth and kindness. Now, matching her on equal footing, he reminds her that the first twenty years of her life aren’t something she can shake so easily.

For the first time in a long while, Byleth doesn’t feel anything but the dark thrill of the fight, the eager push to _win_－and right now, she’s glad for the mind-numbing distraction.

Dimitri lands a glancing blow on her side with the lance’s shaft. Even that knocks the breath out of her, and probably leaves a deep bruise. Despite his warning, she can tell he’s trying to curb his strength _some_what－the positions of his hands aren’t as tight as they could be, the arcs of his swings not as wide, but it doesn’t mean much. When he catches her off guard and slams the flat side of his blade square against her stomach, it throws her off her feet and into a pew hard enough to topple it.

The crash is noisy. Byleth’s vision flashes white as she lands in a heap, her head bouncing off something hard, but she rapidly blinks the stars from her vision and begins to push herself up. She aches in more places than she can count.

Dimitri appears above her, his lance propped against his shoulder－clearly assuming the fight is over. She’s surprised by how annoyed she is by that－annoyed enough to suddenly slash at the air, this time commanding the Sword of the Creator to extend like a whip. As fast as ever, Dimitri strikes the blade aside, but she’s expecting it: her sword lashes tight around his lance, and with a jerk of her wrist she calls the blade back to the hilt. The force pulls him forward, too fast for him to keep his balance, and without missing a beat Byleth braces her feet against his chest and launches him over herself.

Even with momentum on her side, Dimitri is _heavy_. He doesn’t go far, but the sound of his body gracelessly hitting the floor, utterly vulnerable for all of a split-second, is well worth the effort.

They both scramble onto their knees. With their weapons still entangled, they each give a harsh pull to disarm the other, and while Byleth is faster, Dimitri is much stronger. The hilt is very nearly torn from her fingers, but she holds tight and gets dragged forward instead. He improvises instantly and catches her hard across the stomach with his forearm.

As she doubles over with a gasp, she’s glad he didn’t use his fist: she would probably be nursing broken ribs. For an instant she clings breathlessly to his arm, too stunned to move, but her mind is a step ahead of her body.

She can’t get her sword back like this, so she doesn’t try. Byleth forces a breath into her crushed lungs, releases her hilt, and shoves off of him. He must be expecting her to put up a fight for her weapon, because he’s a beat too slow as she twists to her left—his right, his blind side.

Her knee aims for his chin as she leaps to her feet. Dimitri snarls as it connects, knocking him back, and she withdraws several steps and reaches for the knife on her waist—

—only to grab at air. With a startled glance down, Byleth realizes her small sheath is empty.

Before she can consider where she might have dropped it, Dimitri quickly stands and a glint of silver catches her eye: her knife in his hand. She barely has time to wonder _When did he—_ when he hurls it at her.

It misses, passing narrowly between her arm and her side to strike the bench behind her. She recovers from her shock and takes a step to the side—only to be stopped short. The sleeve of her jacket is pinned firmly between knife and wood.

She grasps the hilt and gives a hard tug, but the blade is deep in the bench and doesn’t move. She shoots Dimitri a calculating glare—wondering if that was his intention, and more than a little irked by how closely he played it. Had his aim been even slightly off...

He meets her heated gaze coolly. Blood coats his mouth and chin—her knee must have struck too high—and the grisly look throws his sanity even deeper into question as he runs his tongue slowly over his upper lip to wipe it clean.

“That desperate, cutthroat instinct to survive… And yet you would still say we’re nothing alike.” He shakes his lance and Byleth’s sword unwinds from it, crumpling to the floor. He kicks it away behind him to send it skittering out of reach. “You’re strongest when you aren’t playing at pacifist, Professor. When you let all your doubt go and give into those base, violent instincts… even as you hate yourself for it, some dark part of you enjoys it－the wonderful, terrible simplicity of it. Is that not so?” His bloody smile is smug.

She lets go of her dagger, which still hasn’t budged. She won’t give him the satisfaction of an answer－neither an admission nor a lie he’ll see right through. “I thought you weren’t going to hold back.”

“You’re of no use to me dead,” he counters dismissively. “But… I admit, had you pushed me any harder, I might have killed you.” His tone is the same moody apathy of late, but in a way he almost sounds grudgingly impressed.

Despite the battle instincts that are still on high alert, Byleth forces herself to relax and lowers her arms to her sides. She rolls her shoulders in an apparent shrug, sliding her jacket back on her frame just a little. “I still might.”

The easiest, quickest way to slip out of her coat is to run forward, straight at him—which she does. The distance is short enough, her choice surprising enough, that she’s able to lunge for his lance before he can fully shift into an offensive position. Her hands close around the shaft, but of course she has no hope of wresting it from him. Fortunately, that isn’t her intention.

Dimitri turns in place to absorb her momentum, twisting the lance hard to dislodge her grip and throwing a swift kick into her gut to knock her away. Byleth hits the floor breathless and rolling and wincing, but in the direction she wants: she’s barely come to a stop when she spots her sword just out of reach. She throws herself at it, snatching up the hilt as she silently yells at the limp blade to contract and turn solid again.

It does so with a loud _snap_, and it’s still glowing red when she comes up on one knee, spins, and catches Dimitri’s lance mid-swing as he bears down on her. She grits her teeth as the shockwave of force makes her hands throb and her whole body tremble.

He pulls back for another blow, which will likely be more than her exhausted arms can handle. Rather than countering, she throws herself onto her side at the last second to let it pass overhead—and at the end of his swing she strikes, slamming both her heels into the back of his knee.

He stumbles. Byleth’s free hand snags a hold of his cape and yanks with all her weight, directing him to the left and preventing his recovery. He goes down, she comes up, both weapons blur—

They freeze in a deadlock: Dimitri on his back, Byleth straddling his chest, her blade propped under his chin and his pressed firm against the side of her throat.

They’re both flushed and panting hard. The tremble in her arms is more noticeable than his. His busted lip continues to ooze fresh blood and his eye roams her face, his expression the most alert that it’s been so far—studious, focused, and not the least bit disappointed or angry like she expected.

Byleth’s not sure how long they stay there exchanging silence. She’s not sure what she’s waiting for, either—for him to admit defeat, maybe, as unlikely as that is—but the moment ends when a muffled sound catches her attention. They both look over towards the entrance and see a few knights crowded in the doorway, hesitating and seeming uncertain.

Belatedly, Byleth realizes their fight wasn’t interrupted despite making more than enough noise to cause concern. Either the guards assumed the two of them had a good reason for sparring in the dead of night, or they were reluctant to get in the middle of it.

She lowers her weapon first and Dimitri does the same a heartbeat later. That attentive look in his gaze is gone, replaced once more with his usual irritated disinterest. Just like that, he’s shut himself off entirely again.

Byleth climbs off of him and onto her feet, offering him a hand up. He ignores it.

As he stands and turns his back on her without a second glance, she remarks quietly, “I’ll still follow you.” She sheathes her sword, the sound loud in the silence. “You can’t shake me that easily.”

After a pause, he answers with a quiet snort. “Do what you will.”

She chooses not to watch him go. She’s done enough of that lately. Instead she turns away to straighten the pews they knocked around, and then finally works her knife free and returns it to her belt.

She’s not sure what she feels. Frustrated by Dimitri’s distance, yes. It stings much worse than any of her bruises. She feels a touch of hope—he could have killed her more than once just now, either intentionally or just out of carelessness, and didn’t—but she’s wary of grasping it too tightly.

Her promise to follow him is an honest one. She’ll keep him alive and she won’t stop reaching out to him in hopes of finding the man she once knew trapped inside that broken shell somewhere. Even so… somehow, the idea of risking her life is much less intimidating than the prospect of setting herself up for more hurt and disappointment. She’s used to scars and bruises on her body; she’s found that those on her heart take much longer to heal.

She’s pulling on her jacket when she turns back towards the altar and realizes Dimitri is still there, watching her. She hopes he doesn’t notice that she jumps slightly.

“What is it?” she asks, openly curious.

He takes his time in answering. She can’t tell if he’s thinking that hard about his words or just being stubborn.

“You said fighting is the only way we can talk,” he reminds her. He manages to sound utterly indifferent even as he pushes, “Well? What did my blade say to you?”

While it’s not a question she expects, Byleth doesn’t need to think twice about her answer. Her expression softens. “It told me that the old Dimitri is still alive in there, somewhere.”

A disdainful sneer curls the corner of his mouth. “Just because I didn’t kill you?”

She doesn’t take the bait. “No. Because fighting you reminded me of how full of life he was—and someone that strong doesn’t just roll over and die when times get tough, like you seem to think he did.” She shifts her weight, her eyes and tone hard. “You call yourself a dead man, Dimitri, but I know a corpse when I see one. You have too much life left in you.”

Even if he can’t see it. Even if he ignores it. Even if he’s ready to throw it away, it’s still there, and _that_, she realizes, is what gives her the courage to have hope for him.

Byleth holds his gaze pointedly for a heartbeat more, and then strides past him—only to stop a couple steps later. “Besides,” she adds evenly, without looking back, “a dead man couldn’t keep up with me.”

She leaves him with that thought, to do what he will with it.

Dimitri doesn’t stop her.


End file.
